


the head may err, but never the blood

by demios



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, the hunter needs a good scrubbing down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 13:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18895963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: "You reek of beasts."





	the head may err, but never the blood

**Author's Note:**

> while watching a playthrough i couldn't stop thinking about how the hunter’s clothes get grosser everytime they do something lol...

“You reek of beasts.”

Eileen pinches the beaked end of her mask, hoping the last handful of herbs stuffed inside will obscure the stench. It doesn't, of course. She smelled them long before she heard their footsteps through the streets of Old Yharnam. She crosses her arms, vexed, and leans against the dead tree she had been taking shelter under.

The hunter slows their hurried pace and tugs down the cloth covering their mouth, ready to mutter some fruitless peasantry, as they always do when they pass each other on the hunt. Or maybe to apologize, if they heard the crow’s curt gripe from behind her mask.

Before they can get a word in, she holds one hand up, silencing them as they stand caked in filth. Even in the dim lanterns, she can see the dark offal clinging to their boots and coat. She doesn’t want to think about what’s stuck to their weapon - the pungent odor is enough to give her an idea. A hunter must hunt, aye - but not come back smelling like one.

“Not now. Follow me.” She hisses. Eileen briskly brushes past them, leaving dark feathers in her wake.

The hunter can only trail after her as she scales stone and scaffolding, effortlessly reaching heights far above the city. _Almost like she’s flying,_ the hunter thinks, as they watch her gracefully soar through the air under the moon when she crosses a roof. Their boots, on the other hand, feel weighed down and sticky as they try to emulate her motions.

Oedon Chapel is a little ways off, but instead of entering from the ground entrance, Eileen ducks into one window on the upper floor. The lantern on the hunter’s hip illuminates a small portion of the room, enough to see a stash of provisions laying about. This must be where she had been resting for the night, they realize. The hunter recalls her saying she could no longer retreat to the safety of the dream.

“Your garments. Off. Boots, too.” The crow hunter is prodding their side with the hilt of her sword, making unpleasant pinpricks jolt up their spine even through the layers of their gear.

“They're clean in the dream,” They offer weakly in protest, as if they aren't currently covered in lifeblood and innards and making a mess on the floor just by standing.

“But not here, where every wretch in the vicinity has to smell them.” She nudges them until they reach a basin of water on the ground, and they grimace, almost tripping over it. Point taken.

They tentatively start with their gloves as Eileen shifts around them in the darkness, nose wrinkling when they catch a whiff of the worn leather. They flex their fingers thoughtfully, making note of each scar and bruise and smudge of gunpowder - they had forgotten they possessed  _hands_ under there, after holding tight to their weapons for the entire night.

“I won't ask where you've been sticking your hands - between some monster’s ribs, or up one’s _ass,_ surely.” The room becomes marginally lighter when the woman lights one candle, then another. “Just get them scrubbed, lest you attract something worse than beasts.”

The water in the basin is suspiciously clear, as they lean over and catch a glimpse of their own ragged face. The hunter is a bit surprised to see themselves, and how different they look since first catching sight of their reflection in Iosefka’s cabinets. Eileen seems to sense their hesitation. “From the well. I asked that nervous little man where to fetch some when I last rested here.”

The scent of incense wafting through the room emboldens them, puts the necessary feeling back into their taut muscles to continue. Being bereft of weapons and garments was a vulnerability they were loathe to embrace, but they ignore their instincts when the other hunter is guarding them. Eileen has set her hat and mask set aside, nursing a small urn to keep the beasts at bay. The hunter imagines she must have gotten that from the chapel dweller as well.

The hunter, wanting to be rid of this predicament as quickly as possible, strips off their clothes - hat, coat, trousers, boots, and dutifully scrubs each one in the basin, watching the rust and dirt swirl about the water. A light shiver courses through them as they complete the task. Being in nothing save your smallclothes tends to lack the same warmth as being fully armored.

“There is power in blood. You know this, don’t you?” Eileen is shuffling things behind them again as they kneel before the tub. The sound of wood scraping wood permeates the air when she drags a stool across the room. “Best not to leave it stuck to you.” An old superstition, perhaps, regarding blood magicks. But there is some truth to it; Yharnam blood from both man and beast was strange, and they didn't want to imbibe more than they needed to survive.

The hunter spares a glance behind them as Eileen reaches into the compartment of her mask’s beak, and tosses the crushed herbs away. Well. The hunter supposes they weren't doing their job, anyways. They try to get the muck off the last garment as best they can under her watchful eye, hanging it on a nearby rack to dry.

“Might want to brace yourself,” And that's the only warning they get before Eileen throws a cold bucket of water on them. It takes all of their willpower not to yelp at the sudden shock.

If they weren't shivering before, they certainly were now. Eileen is unremorseful when she gives them a cursory once over, seemingly satisfied with how she’s soaked them to the bone.

“Now, sit.” She pats the seat of the stool expectantly, sharp eyes following the flicker of their gaze when they momentarily land on the window. “And don't even think of running away.” The hunter has not the dignity nor desire to fight her - not that they could, in this state. They resign themselves to the stool, not entirely certain of her intentions.

Eileen has a rag in her hand now, standing behind their soaked form as the hunter watches the puddle gathering at their feet. She swipes it across their shoulder, over a layer grime and sweat, and the hunter takes an indulgent moment to feel disgusted and a little relieved. As resistant to the idea as they first were, they cannot deny she was right. The cleanse was much needed after cleaving through every beast in Yharnam. They let out a shuddering sigh, the knot in their shoulders and neck coming undone. Eileen makes a small hum, as if sharing their brief moment of weary contentment.

The cloth scrubs the side of their neck, wiping off a stray spray of blood, and across the taut muscles of their back and shoulders. It catches over hastily sealed scars knitted together by blood, the puffy tissue still sensitive. Which ones were present before their arrival, they don’t know. Their memory from before Yharnam was blurred, seemingly smothered when they tried to recall anything pertaining to the circumstances that led them here. Sickness, the doll said. She would embolden their sickly spirit, but they couldn’t remember what afflicted them in the first place.

“Not much for talk, eh?” Eileen’s voice draws them out of their thoughts. “No shame in that. But I find that words can be a necessary distraction, at times. Better than sedatives or whatever else you've been taking.” Her lips curl upwards when they stiffen, a small laugh escaping her. “I know what you see behind your eyelids. I was once in your boots.”

The hunter tries to focus on something other than their wandering thoughts and the sordid scene outside. This small space in time is not one they would define as _safe,_ but it is _rest._ It is like being cared for by the doll in the dream, almost. They feel a strange sense of familiarity in Eileen’s efficient but gentle motions - hands from a childhood they cannot remember, love that belonged to a face they cannot adequately piece together. They faintly wonder if any of it would come back to them after the hunt.

It fades when she presses the wet cloth into their hand, silently telling them to finish the job. They run the rag over themselves where they can reach, coming away with filth. While it’s nothing close to truly being clean, it is something to soothe, if only for a moment. They can pretend they’re washing themselves of the city and its horrible scourge, of muddled memories and the constant state of anxiety they’ve acquired.

The hunter spares a glance out of the window again, towards the low-hanging moon. It is serene as it shines over the city, full and bright. It is enchanting, how it is silent and beautiful while a plague ravages the land below. It calls to them, almost. They can’t make out the words, but there is the distinct sensation of a pull, each time they traverse under moonlight. Something telling them to shed this skin, to seek _another vessel-_

They shake their head. The stress of the hunt must be getting to them.

They finish up gathering what grime they can, and toss the rag into the basin. _Good enough._ The hunter thought the impromptu bath might have been the last of Eileen’s kindness, but they feel her fingers running through the mop on their head before they have a chance to stand.

“Thinking of the moon?” Her hands start untangling the knots in their drenched hair.

“Of the sky.” They try not to move their head too much when they catch Eileen in their periphery, if only to lessen the chance of a tug on their scalp. “You said that you give hunters a sky burial?”

“Aye, ‘tis the way of the covenant. We won't let you rot and fester in the ground, to drink of blood in the soil and come back as something worse than you were before - then we’d have to put you down a second time, and it's no more pleasant than the first.” She dryly chuckles.

Eileen pauses, glancing through the window. The hunter cannot fathom what is coalescing in her eyes at the sight. They do not know how many nights she's seen, or what horrors she's been subject to all the while. They never shared much about themselves when they crossed paths, but there is a sense of warmth in Eileen’s gruff concern, even in the midst of something as merciless as the hunt. They do not think of how many hunters she's had to lay to rest.

“Some say crows are messengers. They carry your soul up to the moon, where it may find rest in a final hunter’s dream.” She murmurs, her hands moving slower than before. She sounds wistful, as if remembering something from before the hunt. “Sounds nice, doesn't it? A foreigner’s tradition, carried on by foreigners in a strange city.”

“And if you die?” They ask without thinking.

“Do the same for me - throw my body to the birds, not the beasts.” She replies sternly, without hesitation.

The hunter is silent for a long moment. “Will I see you in the dream?”

“That depends on you. I’ve not known the dream to hold more than the doll, messengers, and that old bastard, but -” Eileen smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing and a flash of bared teeth catching the light of the candles. “If you want me to pay you a visit so badly, perhaps that can be arranged.”

The hunter makes a thoughtful noise at that, when she undoes the last knot.

After a little more fussing, she steps back and reaches for her pack, slinging it over her shoulder. No more coddling them, not when there were beasts to hunt. The hunter starts gathering their things, too - their garments were far from dry, but they always kept a spare set among their provisions.

The incense and candles are snuffed out with a hearty puff from the woman, the small room dark save for the light of the moon. The hunter watches the wisps of smoke swirl and rise until they fade, carried into the sky. Would a hunter's fitful soul look the same way, they wonder. They can't ask Eileen anymore, not when she dons her mask and covers what warmth was left in those eyes. Her weapon is the only thing that glints under the pale moon.

She pauses before she slips out of the window. “Hunt. And find the dawn before the beasts find you. I’ll be waiting when the sun rises.”

And with that, she disappears into the night.


End file.
